


A Solitary Man

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in the corner are a few scrawled words. He <i>knows</i> this writing. It's not his mother's, and it's not his. <i>I thought you'd go looking. Keep at it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Solitary Man

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the ~~Johnny Cash~~ Neil Diamond song. This story is one great big spoiler for 2.08 and contains directly quoted lines from the episode.

Sam remembers this sofa; the spring that never fails to dig into the flesh at the top of his thigh. The chequered throw that covers wilting pink flowers and Edwardian curves. Sitting on this sofa, after all this time --- it's strange. The same cognitive dissonance that came with having to learn to walk again. He never stopped walking. He's used to browns and oranges, the smell of leather and stale cigarettes. This room is too clean and orderly, but it's familiar, like looking through the bottom of a bottle and seeing the world all warped and smeared. That dark shape in the corner is a fern, you've touched that fern, you bought that fern, but when you look at it through moulded glass --- it could be anything.

It's the details he never expected to cut close to the bone. His mother's perfume. The coffee-ring on the table. They're all right and still wrong. Sam shifts uncomfortably and tugs on the cuff of his jacket, because it itches in ways the other never did.

"Do you still have those boxes in the cupboard under the stairs?" he asks his mum when she settles next to him and pours the tea.

Ruth shrugs one shoulder. "Why wouldn't I? What did you want them for?"

"I wanted --- to look." To savour. To sense. To find anything that might make him feel better.

"Did you want my help? Was there something specific?"

"No, I'll be okay. Can I do it now?"

Ruth stares uncomfortably closely. Sam drags a finger around the rim of his cup. He remembers this tea set. It was a forty-fifth birthday present.

"They're covered in dust."

"I like dust. It gives a sense of time and place."

Ruth frowns. Sam ignores it. He stands, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over the sofa. He rolls up his shirt sleeves and glances towards the sliver of cupboard he can see through the doorframe. Takes a hesitant step and then strides towards his goal.

He drags the boxes into the kitchen and settles on the floor with them. They're heavy and his arms are still weaker than they once were, so he doesn't even bother trying to lift them onto the table. He hears Ruth stepping out of the lounge and has a horrified moment where he thinks she's going to come and join him, pauses waiting, but she calls that she's going to go buy some more milk, asking if he wants anything. He says no, but he doesn't mean it; he just doesn't want anything she can offer.

The first box he opens brings back memories of going down to the record shop and listening to as many EPs as he could before the owner would tell him to sod off, before he finally saved enough money from mowing next door's garden to actually buy a 7" single to take home and play. Gary Numan, thick eyeliner and suit; incongruous like he feels now. An old record at the time of purchase, but only by a few years. He almost had enough for another, but couldn't decide between Dylan and the Stones. Later, he'd wished he'd gone for Bowie, but hindsight was always clearer.

There's his school jumper; grey with a hole near the collar. It's tiny, thin and worn. It had to last four years and he got into scrapes and scraps more than any other kid his size, he'd wager. Never could keep his mouth shut even then. He's not sure why it's in here. He'd have chucked it years ago. Beneath his jumper there are copies of school photos. The others are proudly displayed around the house, but his mum always insisted he get four, to give to his Aunties, and somehow they were always left with one to spare. He looks at the bowl cut, the side parting, the Elvis impersonation and the attempt at a mullet. Every year a new style. And that's him, apparently. Doesn't seem like it. He could be looking at any serious child, guarded eyes and straight line where a smile should be.

This is the wrong box. This is a box for his years in secondary school; working hard, fighting harder, being confused sexually and emotionally, and just confused in general. These are the years he became obsessed with _The Professionals _ and _The Sweeney_, and tried to stop thinking about his Dad, proving _he_ was the man of the household. These are the years he lost his virginity in the back of a Ford Granada to a girl called Jenny because he wasn't brave enough to make a move on her brother Brian, and loved it all the same, cherishing the St Christopher's Medal she gave him, wearing it still.

Sam brushes his fingers lightly over the objects and places them carefully back. He works at the flaps of the other box, but it's sealed with duct tape and he needs a stanley knife to attain access to its contents. He slices the pad of his index finger open and sucks at the wound out of instinct, but doesn't feel the sharp sting he'd expected.

Digging through, he sees that this is what he was searching for. The right decade, the items that evoke sense memory more recent than nostalgia should allow. The first thing to arrest his attention is a small metal box his Uncle Martin gave him after he married Auntie Heather. He used to keep his football cards in it. Sam opens the box reflexively, and almost smiles when Bobby Charlton's determined face stares up at him. He closes the lid with a snap and continues dragging things out of the box, placing them on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. Shifting a battered looking address book, he sees a dog-eared photograph of him wearing a policeman's hat. He gazes at it, uncertain. He took it, this photo. It was his. In his flat. It shouldn't be here, lying underneath a book in a box his mother has kept for years. He picks it up, smoothing his index finger over his face, and flips the photo over. Written in the corner are a few scrawled words. He _knows_ this writing. It's not his mother's, and it's not his.

_I thought you'd go looking. Keep at it._

"I never understood that, why he wrote those words," Ruth says. Sam starts. He hadn't heard the door open, hadn't sensed she was there. He looks up at her leaning against the doorjamb, tucking a strand of grey hair behind an ear.

"Who?"

Ruth's eyes cloud and she gives him her 'never bother' smile. "I expect you're feeling tired and hungry?"

Sam struggles to stand, feeling ferocious in his curiosity, his voice hard-edged and gravelled. "Who, Mum?"

"There was a police officer I knew once. Well, two of them, really. But this one, the one who wrote that line. He was a DCI --- Hunt. Nasty bloke, like so many of them were back then. They thought they ruled the world and could treat people like muck."

Sam swallows. "Gene isn't like that." He gives a rueful huff of breath. "Not always."

Ruth doesn't appear to hear him, Sam can't tell if that's deliberate. "The other officer, he'd taken this picture, apparently, though I can't see why. He always was so strange."

"Did he remind you of anyone?"

"Hunt?"

Sam stops himself from shouting and manages a harsh whisper instead. "Tyler."

Ruth looks away and sounds distant and light. "Not at the time, no."

*

_Keep at it_, the photograph says. Sam tries, begs his mother for answers, but she's not forthcoming. She gets wild-eyed and scared, and suggests calling Doctor Caulfield, which results in Sam asking no more questions and pretending he's simply feeling unwell. Psychiatry has no place in his 'support network'. He'll participate in various evaluations because he's told to, but that's in a series of recordings. No need to look into kind eyes and placating gestures, or experts who talk about shock. Sam repacks the boxes and dumps them back in the cupboard, tucking the photograph into his pocket. He calls a taxi and kisses Ruth on the cheek when it arrives with the blare of a horn.

Sam stares at glass buildings during the trip to the mill. These are the products of rejuvenation, millions of pounds poured into making Manchester brighter. But it's lost character somewhere along the way; so it may be better looking, perhaps, but it's not the place Sam thinks of as home. He hadn't noticed, before. The change, though sudden in some respects, had been slow in others, and when things progress around you, it's hard to remember where they start.

The bricks are cool against Sam's palms and cheek. The daily ritual. He breathes in and imagines he can feel the industry alive again. The kids who live in one of the flats around the corner have taken to shouting obscenities at him --- lie in wait just for the purpose, but Sam doesn't care, because he needs this. He climbs the stairs to his flat, fiddling with the key, stripping out of his suit, placing the photograph face down on his glass-topped table. He showers to erase a day of meetings and discussion; some more useful than others. He uses soap, but never gets clean.

When he's sitting with a towel around his shoulders and a bottle of scotch by his hand, he studies Gene's writing once more. It's neater than his own, not as masculine as he would have thought. The letters curl and loop together, as if it's one continuous line. And he wonders; what did Gene hope to achieve writing him this message? How did Gene know to do so? What happened after the shots were fired?

Sam has nightmares, mostly because he refuses to take his sleeping pills. He sees the betrayal in Gene's eyes, hears Annie's shouting, watches time and again as Chris and Ray fall. And if they weren't real, he surely wouldn't feel this way? And if they weren't real, he couldn't have this note.

Sam drinks until he's too sick to swallow, insistent pounding behind his eyes, his ears ringing.

*

It's only because of Maya that Sam still has a job, but he never sees her anymore. She moved on. She had to, he knows this. When he called her to say thanks for her recommendation, Maya sounded strangled and tense. She'd been crying, but didn't want him to know. He could say the same, but for different reasons. Sam accepted Maya leaving him months before, so he isn't bitter, but he misses her. She would listen to him without judgement; yet he can't leave her with this burden, so he doesn't try to contact Maya more than he has to through official channels.

He doesn't pine for her in the way he expected to. He doesn't long for her touch, or the heat of her body against his in the morning. He doesn't daydream about her long eyelashes and wicked smile. It surprises him, at first. He thinks he should want to be with her on a visceral level, that he should crave sensation. He does, but not with Maya. The conversations he replays in his mind are more grating and clipped. They're deep, in more ways than one; things that were frequently said, some that never were. Sometimes, he touches a thumb to his jaw and remembers a punch with fondness. Other times he buys two bacon butties, setting one on a plate in front of him as he eats the other with relish. The kids around the corner might be right when they call him 'fucking whacked in the head', but everyone has their little vices.

It's Maya who helps Sam in his quest to 'keep looking'. She requests files he's not allowed to ask for now that he's been relegated to a sit and listen position, and has them delivered to his desk in boxes plastered with a yellow post-it bearing the words 'good luck'. Sam suspects Maya doesn't want to know what she's sending the well wishes for. He trawls through papers and folders after work for hours, finally alighting upon reports that detail Leslie Johns shooting Gene's team down. There is no mention of a Sam Tyler, Sam Williams, or anyone of his description. No M.A.R.S. No conspiracy. There is a grainy photograph of Gene, Annie, Chris and Ray; Gene bullet torn and resting on a crutch, glaring into the camera with a fierce set of his jaw and flint eyes, everyone else looking vaguely shocked and in various states of pain. They were saved, according to the report, through the foresight of other officers from A-Division. They were saved.

After so many nightmares of death and destruction, his chest tightens with relief at this, the simple acknowledgement that not only did they exist, but likely continue to do so.

Sam wipes away the tears that fall thick and fast down his cheeks, pressing fingers to the bridge of his nose and shuddering out breath. Tears of joy, or tears of sorrow and regret, or a bit of both, intermingling. He takes his time and doesn't continue rifling for more until the sun is a pale orange in the sky and his back hurts from constantly leaning forward. Other people he's forced to work on policy-making with will be here soon, and he can't be seen leaving with entire boxes of classified information, so Sam works methodically, but finds nothing further. He places his one piece of evidence in his inner jacket pocket, close to his heart.

It's only after he's been to the vending machine to get a coffee that Sam thinks to take the photo out and flip it over. There, along the top, in that same, flowing style, are three words that make him abruptly stop in his tracks.

_Hunt for me._

He'd grimace at the pun if his pulse wasn't racing. There will be more favours to cash in, but he can't not know. Whatever instinct lead him on this path, he has to see it to its end, even if he doesn't like the results. Even if Gene has sent him on this chase only so that he can exact dark and brutal revenge. But there would be no communication if this were the case. Gene must know something he doesn't.

Sam calls in sick from the downstairs toilets. Evans, Glen's replacement, says he thought he saw him in the corridor. Sam jokes that it must have been a phantom. The smile in his voice doesn't reach his eyes. That day, he goes home and tries his own independent search, but as he'd predicted, 'Gene Hunt' comes up with DNA websites and he's blocked from any useful databases. He tries everyone he can think of in CID to little avail, but succeeds with an article about Phyllis.

_**Phyllis Dobbs, 77, seen collecting the Intergenerational Darts Trophy on behalf of the team from the Alexandra Lodge Care Centre**  
A retired officer of the Greater Manchester Police, Dobbs is said to be formidable opposition._

"That sounds about right," Sam mutters to himself. He's been doing that a lot lately. Phyllis of the photograph looks like someone he wouldn't want to cross; the sort of grandmother that would feed you deliberately disgusting sour sweets and expect you to fall over in thanks. Once again, Sam finds this fitting. He finishes reading the article and jots down the address for the centre. It's an expensive looking building on Wilbraham Road. He'd never really thought about where Phyllis would want to spend her time outside of work, having half-formed notions she lived in the station behind the front desk.

He attempts sleep before the journey. He looks like shit and thinks he should try to look presentable. But he doesn't manage anything resembling relaxation, his muscles and nerves wound tight.

Another taxi, because he still can't bring himself to drive, and Sam is gazing up at red brick and wondering how fast he could run away. Instead he inquires at the front desk as to where Phyllis might be; stating he's an old family friend. It's a version of the truth, he supposes, though not an exact one.

*

"He said you'd come. I never believed him," Phyllis says without preamble. She's sitting by the window, a crossword open on her lap.

"Hi Phyllis." Sam sits opposite Phyllis, perching on the end of her bed. She tuts at him crinkling the quilt.

"Well, until one day I saw you on the telly banging on about a drugs bust you'd been involved in," she continues. "I figured he'd either been telling the truth, or Annie hadn't told me everything I needed to know about her son."

"Could be both, for all we know. Phyllis, could you tell me where Gene is now?"

"Philips Park Cemetery. He died six years back. Liver failure."

Sam expected this. He had a feeling. It feels like there's a cricket ball in his throat and he digs his nails into his palms to stop himself from crying out in anguish.

"Under the bed there's a box I've been keeping only on the strength I never wanted to believe you'd done what they said for nowt. Gene was positive you'd had to have a reason for your actions and he damn near killed our Annie by the dint of glaring alone before she told the whole sorry tale about your insanity." Phyllis gives the bark of a laugh. "Except it wasn't insanity, was it, Boss?"

Sam shakes his head. He bends down and scrabbles about for the box, pulling it out with quick wrenching actions. It takes five goes before it's finally out. "D'you keep a bowling ball in here, or what?" Sam grunts.

"Oi, you, no lip. You didn't expect me to keep it separate from all other things I might treasure, did you? In its own little sealed compartment, with a gilded latch?"

He settles back and extracts albums and an antique music box, thinking that he would have liked that very much, until he comes into contact with a manila folder. He lifts it out and examines it. It has his writing on the side. It should contain the report he wrote about Davie Mackay. Instead, inside, there is a single leaf of paper on which a familiar hand is scrawled.

_Morgan took away every file you made your mark on, except this. You always said it was immoral I used my filing cabinet to stash stuff away, but I bet you're best pleased now, aren't you, you little tosser? _

Sam, I don't forgive you, but hearing what Cartwright says on the matter, I believe you. I wouldn't be writing if I didn't. The future, is it all it's cracked up to be? Hover cars and robots in every room? I expect you wouldn't answer even if you could.

I know why you did what you did. You always talked about needing to be home and always being by yourself, and I didn't understand until you left. I tried to track you down. To kill you, to be perfectly honest about it. But when Morgan had no idea where you'd gone, I knew something was up. It didn't sit right.

Live the life you want and find the answers you're searching for. Never stop being that pain in the arse that gets results, because the world's better when you're being a git who's fighting for a cause he believes in. Keep doing what you think is right, Sam. You can make a difference. You already have.

Sam reads the letter twice, lifting it closer the second time, thinking he can absorb the words and maybe hear Gene saying them, low and husky. Underneath the paper, stuck to the inner sleeve of the folder, is a picture of him and Gene side by side, taken as a candid shot during one of their drinking sessions. Sam is grinning like he feels he never will again, and Gene's either about to punch him, or pretending as such. It's a scene of conflict and joy, which is what Sam longs to be near every second of the day. On the back of the photograph, Sam traces his fingers over the words 'don't forget'.

*

Sam can't tell Ruth he time travelled. It sounds mad to his own ears and he hasn't even spoken the words aloud. He has to tell her he's going, though. She has to know, after the months of waiting for him, that she need wait no more. Her Sam was never coming back, and the one who's going could never be him again.

He hates this place of dull greys and blues. He hates being stuck in an office with no purpose but the creation of more red tape. He isn't doing what he thinks is right. He isn't feeling. It isn't instinct that impels him to wake up each morning with a hang-over and misery, but fear. And if it worked once, it has to work again. The choices people make have to mean something.

There is sorrow in Ruth's eyes when she opens the door. A stilted, grudging acceptance. Sam knows she had an inkling a long time ago, how could she not? But they won't speak plainly on this issue, because it's too complicated for that. They'll speak in code, and understand one another, because that's what mothers and sons do.

"I went some place, Mum," Sam says. "And every day, I woke up in that place." He looks away. "And I told myself, I'm alive. And I was. In some ways, more than I've ever been. You know, a barman, a barman once told me that you know when you're alive, because you can feel. And you know when you're not, because you can't feel anything. I made a promise, Mum. I made a promise to someone that I care about very much."

Ruth smiles; a soft, sad smile. "Then you've got nothing to worry about, 'cause you always keep your promises."

He leaves Ruth with letters and the photographs. The evidence, so to speak. It's the least he can do.

*

The choice isn't so much whether or not, as when. Sooner, or later? Quick, or fast. He thinks about it constantly; in his flat, waiting for taxis, at work. He drives once more, thinking he may decide to crash. That's not permanent enough. If he came back once, he can do it another time, and the thought of that, of having his real life restored and losing it all over again, is too painful to bear.

It's a snap decision when he makes it, but the lead-up has taken a long time. On the roof of the station, Sam remembers that if he believed him once, Gene could believe him again. He thinks about the splash of beer against polished wood, and clouds of smoke around every turn. He recalls companionship and trust.

And he jumps.

Sam's surprised when he's in the tunnel, darkness around him and his friends and colleagues in danger. He had envisioned arriving months after the fact and having to mend bridges, but this is better. If it was his choice to come back, he must also have chosen the context in which to do so, though he still doesn't know how, and doesn't want to analyse it.

He steadies his gun and fires. And he is the saviour.

Gene is angry at first, of course he is. Everyone's mistrustful. But it doesn't last long, because Gene also holds the ultimate sway and he trusts Sam implicitly, though not at this stage knowing the truth. The truth is, it's the details that matter. The glint of a friend's eyes as they tease, the roar of an engine as it speeds down the road, the slip-ups and mistakes a blagger makes during interviews that lead to his ultimate downfall. Sam has them again now, and they feel as they should.

Sam buys Phyllis a drink. He makes his amends with Chris and Ray. He kisses a girl called Annie, because he isn't yet brave to make a move on Gene, and loves it all the same, because he's back where he belongs.

There's time enough to live the life he wants. And the answers to his questions might just be what he needs.

Sam watches as Gene rests awkwardly on his crutch, a flicker of pain through his eyes. "Are you alright?"

Gene gives him a look. "I will be. And so will you."


	2. The Long Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Should he dare to tell Gene that his insides do a flip every time he looks at him, his life could easily become just as confusing as it would were he to finally find out how he's managed metaphysical transportation, and Sam's not sure which one he's most yearning to avoid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Annie (break up), Sam/Gene. So, it turns out discovering 'Solitary Man' was Diamond and not Cash was perfect, because [the Neil Diamond song](http://www.allthelyrics.com/lyrics/neil_diamond/the_long_way_home-lyrics-648074.html) this title is taken from is basically this story.

Sam settles back into a routine with startling ease. To his mind, he was gone months, but to those around him it was a minute at the most. If the smiles are somewhat guarded, it's to be expected, but Sam, 'the Boss', 'my DI', is accepted as one of the team. He drinks down at the Arms, giving Chris relationship advice and listening to Ray's many conquests. He takes Annie out to dinner and the movies, enjoying the comfortable, warm atmosphere and lack of pressure in interactions.

At first, he tries not to stir trouble. He is silent during an interview in which Gene lets loose with his fists. He doesn't question Gene's choice to have a mere pawn in Tim Ellis' empire locked up. He doesn't breathe a word about ensuring proper procedure during his run-down on the tack CID are going to take during the murder investigation of a forty-four year old woman.

He expects Gene to be pleased with him --- for it to strengthen their friendship --- but after the third week of total obedience, Gene shoves him against the concrete walls of Lost and Found and demands to know what the matter is.

"Just what has happened to the pedantic little bastard that's a thorn in my considerably large paw?"

Sam considers his options and goes for a version of honesty. He's distracted by the heat and weight of Gene's fingers on his shoulders. "I thought I should lay low... after Morgan."

"Sam, I didn't allow you back onto my team because I thought you'd be a good little boy now that I had something on you. You do your job the way you know best."

Sam shifts under Gene's hands and gazes at him with narrowed eyes. "You want me to piss you off all the time rather than listen to your all-encompassing wisdom?"

Gene looks down at where they're touching and pulls away, straightening his shoulders. "Checks and balances, Tyler."

Sam can't stop the teasing grin that spreads across his face. "You know I'm often right. You like me as a picky pain." The grin widens as Gene's frown deepens. "You lay awake at night wondering how you can be just like me. One day we'll walk into the station, and there you'll be, short hair and leather jacket."

Gene pushes him back into the wall with breath-stealing force. "Give it a rest."

"It's true though, isn't it?" Sam continues, his blood pumping quicker. "Just a little bit. You could almost say it was love at first sight."

Gene sighs and rubs his head. "Back to normal, then. Or whatever it is you pass for." He glares. "Finish that report on McMillan."

Sam watches Gene's retreating back and breathes in deep. He should have realised, given the letter, but he'd never thought Gene would ever say these words to his face. He thought he'd have to ease into growing resistance and persistent questioning of methods. That it was best to use stealth and cunning. He wants to take things slowly, to make sure that he's walking before running, that he's right about this not being a one-sided attraction.

Gene trusts in him like no one ever has before, and maybe that's all it is, and maybe that's enough, but there are times Sam thinks he sees something else playing in the depths of Gene's eyes. When they touch, even if it's a punch or a push, there's connection there. They have a rhythm and flow that Sam's rarely had with others, and certainly not with people he hasn't been physically involved with.

*

Annie tells Sam after that first month that she prefers them as friends. Sam isn't angry given he'd figured out his love for her was platonic the first two weeks after waking up from his coma. He would think about her often, would picture the tears in her eyes, felt sickened by his betrayal, but it was Gene's injury that he was obsessed with, that haunted all of his dreams. It was Gene he had imaginary conversations with, and who he wanted to strive for.

He'd been stringing Annie along, knowing things couldn't go any further than kisses and cuddles snatched as a substitute for other, less available human affection. And he feels bad for that, because he's never wanted to hurt her, hates the thought of causing her pain. This relationship has simply been what's expected from all around them.

"Young love," Phyllis has often muttered, pretending to be unimpressed, but cooing and asking for all the details behind the scenes.

Nelson has given them thoughtful, considered glances as Ray makes lewd gestures and queries. Countless questions on what Annie's tits feel like haven't been answered, though Sam makes a concession late one night, after seven malt whiskys and half a bottle of red.

"Firm but yielding, like cushions," he says, "but perky. Her skin's so smooth, like a sea-softened pebble. Feels amazing against your lips."

Ray shoots him jealous looks for days, and Sam thinks he's probably going to get attacked by the WI for the rampant objectification, but at least he tried to be poetic about it.

All in all, Sam's glad when Annie admits it was always his danger that attracted her, and now he's settled down, he's like the boy next door. She respects and cares for him, but he doesn't set her nerves on edge, and she's at that time of her life when she's up for adventure. Unexpectedly, Sam's newfound sanity is a burden on his love-life. Understandably, he doesn't much mind.

Sam takes a sip of tea, sitting down and looking around Annie's flat. "I'm gonna try not to be mortally offended."

"Your heart's not in it anyway," Annie retorts. "It belongs to another."

Sam starts, his head whipping around quickly so he can interrogate Annie with a stare. "How d'you mean?"

"You're married to the job."

Sam relaxes, resting one arm along the back of the sofa. He props his head on the other hand, angled so that he's facing Annie.

"You make it sound so sad. There's nothing wrong with dedication and devotion to your career."

"You can take it too far, though, can't you? I mean, you might start saying crazy stuff about being from the future."

"And if I told you that wasn't craziness, but reality, Annie?"

"I'd wonder what else you have to hide." Annie places her mug on the coffee table and crosses her legs. Their knees make contact and the small glance she gives tells Sam she isn't completely immune to a physical reaction when they touch. "But it wasn't entirely a lie, was it, Sam? You believed it for a while."

"Because it was the truth."

"Give over. Time travel's for telly and books. It's not like you had a magic machine or anything, is it?"

Sam sighs, but doesn't press the point, because he doesn't want there to be distance between them. And since he doesn't know the mechanics of it, he can't defend himself with anything more than words. Annie's a fine detective and expects evidence. Sam has nothing but conviction.

*

The station is ablaze the next day with a hundred whispering voices at every turn; accusatory finger-pointing and proclamations of "he were never good enough, anyway", but Sam barely notices. He's never minded how they view him, not even now he knows they're not figments of his overactive imagination. And even if he were inclined to bother, he's too busy ruminating on how he got to be here, on how it all works. He'd been purposefully ignoring it. Was quite happy ignoring it. But the questions still stand.

He is an impossible man in an impossible time. Is he the only one? His little friend with the red dress hasn't visited him since he came back, which at first was a relief, but now he thinks it was short-sighted glee. No more crackling radios. No talking to the telly. No obvious paths to take when it comes to gaining answers.

Gene calls Sam into his office before the day is over. His legs are propped up on his table and a newspaper is flat across his lap. Sam stops staring long enough to realise Gene's gaze is fixed with an inquisitive directness that he often uses in Lost &amp; Found.

"A little birdie told me you and Cartwright broke it off."

"Your little birdie's right."

Gene nods, folding the newspaper and dropping his feet to the floor. "Right. Is this gonna be a problem?"

"In what ways, Guv?"

"Are you both gonna start taking pot-shots at each other? Compromise investigations? Will I find you on my doorstep late at night, Samuel, half-cut and sobbing your broken heart out?"

"No, it was amicable. We're both professionals. And what makes you think I'd come running to you?"

Gene narrows his eyes. "She split up with you, though, didn't she?"

"For what it's worth, yeah, she did."

"Go on, get your coat, I'll buy you a drink. Just the one, mind. The rest can come out of your pay-packet."

Sam doesn't bother to conceal his smirk. "That's shockingly considerate of you, but I'm not upset, really. Annie and I --- we're better off friends."

"She's no good in the sack?"

"Wouldn't know, never got there." Sam reminisces on the few times he thought there was a chance. He'd been willing, but hesitant, and he supposed the indecision showed through."There were a couple of close calls, but, ultimately I think we both decided we liked more than we lusted."

Gene stands, taking his camel-hair coat from his chair and dragging it on. "You sicken me, Tyler." He shakes his head. "Are you really that much of a fairy, or is it a case of the more you have to say, the smaller the pencil?"

"You've seen it, you tell me."

"No chance. I've a knack of blocking out mind-shattering experiences."

"Mind-shattering? My God, you make it sound like you were full of awe."

"No. It was an entirely different kind of awful."

Sam goes so far as to wink, which garners him a short, sharp whack below his left ribs. "Don't you do that at me, you'll give people ideas."

"There's no one here but us."

"You'll give me ideas, then. Just don't do it."

Sam grins. This is what he missed the most, through the endless days of monotony and solitary confinement. Innuendo and poking fun. Knowing that he could say something that would be met with a blank look one moment, an affectionate roll of the eyes next. He missed being called girl's names, and being forced into going down to the pub, and the push and pull of the relationship, where he didn't know if he hated Gene or loved him.

He's fairly sure it's not hatred.

"Can it be any drink of my choice? Because Nelson's got in some fantastic reds at my behest."

"Wine's for pansies."

"You say that now, but I'll make you a connoisseur yet."

"Jesus Christ, I hope not."

*

Two hours later, they have a table to themselves, and Gene's screwing his nose up at a Beaujolais that Sam thinks is more than slightly decent. It's light-bodied and has the barest hint of oak. When he was back in 2006, all Sam drank was scotch, trying to recapture what he'd lost, but now that he's recaptured it, he goes for the occasional old favourite.

"I hate this foreign muck. Why'd you have to get something with French on the bottle?"

"You know the best wines come from France. Or Australia. You wouldn't want me serving you British shit."

"Australian wine? Stomped by convicts, I suppose. Watch it, if there's anyone worse than Frogs when it comes to washing, it's those dusty bastards. And God knows how they guard the stuff when the sun's too hot and they go for a beer. I expect you'll come down with myxomatosis."

"Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly racist?"

"Australia's not a race, it's a collection of inbred Europeans and our worst, with a golliwog or two mixed in."

Sam's glass drops to the table and he grits his teeth to stop himself from exploding in indignation. "You say these things to piss me off."

"And you let them."

"Sometimes I forget that you're a complete and utter arsehole."

Gene sniffs, but behind the action there's amusement. "However do you manage that?"

"I pretend you're all sweetness and light beneath that gruff exterior. You may have a cruel and hard shell, but on the inside you're squishy soft. Like a lobster."

"I'd shut it if I were you, or you might find my snippers coming close to very precious objects of yours."

Sam considers this and rather than baulking, gets decidedly hot under the collar. The merest suggestion of that sort of intimacy sends pleasant warmth down his spine. Gene's threats rarely fill him with dread, more often erring on the side of filling him with elated anticipation. He knows there's something wrong about that.

Sam drinks quietly and wonders. What if investigation into why he's here gets in the way of simply enjoying the fact that he is? He could spend his whole life searching. Gene makes an easy task of distracting him, and burying himself in work would help. He needn't spend forever pondering the keys to the Universe and how he managed to grab hold of them and take it for a spin.

Except. There is a nagging voice at the back of his mind, the part of him that wanted to become a cop, that thrives on interrogation. It wants to know, if not everything, at least something. And though the phrase "curiosity killed..." lingers, Sam thinks that with any luck, it won't do any harm.

That night, after too much to drink and nothing to eat, Sam sits in front of his television and starts to ask his questions. He asks what most people do at some point in their lives, only with a little more specific and vested interest. Why am I here? What is my purpose?

The girl from the test card stays on the screen and smiles blithely at him, mocking him with serenity. He never thought he'd ever actually want to talk to her, would seek out her counsel and complain when she didn't pop out of the ether and harass him. But here he is, bowing down at her altar and wondering why she's forsaken him.

*

Gene notices that something is up during the next month, although he falsely attributes it to Sam's break-up with Annie. Sam knows this because Gene constantly points attractive women out to him, no matter where they are or what they're doing.

"She's a bit of alright."

"Look at her knockers, I'd love to have a play with those funbags."

"Bloody hell, she's flexible, wonder what it'd be like having her legs wrapped around your head?"

Sam pretends to take an interest, even though he pays more attention to Gene's hand on his arm, warm, and solid, and doing unspeakable things to his pulse. Sam has two things on his mind; his constant, unerring attraction to Gene, and his existential crisis. In terms of how consuming and potentially dangerous they both are, the balance is relatively even. Should he dare to tell Gene that his insides do a flip every time he looks at him, his life could easily become just as confusing as it would were he to finally find out how he's managed metaphysical transportation, and Sam's not sure which one he's most yearning to avoid.

For all the hours he's spent wondering what Gene feels like when he's tight up against his body, clenched fingers, low murmurs, and rolling hips, he knows it will complicate matters, most likely beyond his control. And Gene exudes heterosexuality at eleven on a one-to-ten scale most minutes of the day, except for the occasional intense glance Sam's way.

"You're a real sorry-sad-sack, you are," Gene says, dumping a bacon butty in Sam's lap and climbing beside him in the Cortina. He begins to pull his gloves off and Sam watches him, thoughts entailing varying degrees of undress flitting through his mind.

"For the last time, I'm not," Sam says, unwrapping the paper surrounding his butty and waiting for Gene's response before taking a bite.

"Are," Gene says through a mouthful of food.

Sam inwardly sighs. Okay, so he is a sorry-sad-sack, but that's because he's thought about how he may find the answers he needs, and he doesn't much relish what it involves.

"You know, I find it unutterably touching that you care so much about me that this should concern you," Sam says, hiding true sentiment with acidity.

"Unlike some, I give a damn about the people on my team."

"Anyone ever told you you've a heart of gold?"

"You're bloody lippy for a bloke who's had his balls handed to him on a plate by a WDC."

Sam takes another bite, chewing in lieu of retorting. He stares out the window, and wills for the appearance of the blaggers who are meant to be breaking into the joint across the road.

"Does it really not bother you?" Gene asks, and Sam detects a genuine interest in his tone as opposed to antagonism.

"It honestly doesn't."

"What went so wrong?"

Sam looks at Gene, noting the inquisitive frown, the perplexed downturn of his lips.

"I'd've thought you were a match made in heaven," Gene continues, and Sam notices that there's a trace of bitterness there.

"I didn't love Annie, Gene. And she didn't love me. Nothing went wrong, it just... didn't go right."

Gene huffs out a breath. "You put too much stock by love, if you ask me."

"Without love, you've got nothing," Sam replies emphatically.

"So nothing is what you'll live with."

"What're you talking about? I've got you." Sam gives a blinding, deliberately obnoxious grin, and doesn't flinch when Gene chucks the paper at his head.

*

He calls in sick on Friday. He could have waited until the weekend, but he wasn't sure if the answers he craves and the person he's planning on asking them for would be available then. Dennis sounds about as unconcerned as Sam had expected, and he hears Phyllis say something about never-ending heartbreak from somewhere beyond the front desk. Let them think what they want to.

Driving to Hyde is a bewildering experience. This is the path he never bothered to take, before. The one he stayed away from at all costs --- at nearly the cost of his happiness, his life. It's the one he has to journey down before he ever feels he's truly home, whether he belongs here or not. It's perplexing when the people at C Division treat him as an old companion, and worrying when he's ushered into the pristine office with a cup of tea and a scotch finger.

"Sam, so good to see you. You're looking well."

"Cut the pleasantries, Morgan. I'm not here for fake niceties, I'm here for answers."

"Ah. Yes. He said you'd come," Morgan says with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Who?" Sam asks, although he doesn't have to.

"Hunt." Morgan gives a sneer of disgust. "Said you'd want to know all about our little wheels and deals, and how he gets to keep you."

Sam thinks about it and almost smiles. That sounds about right. "I'm not here for that either," he says abruptly. "I need you to tell me about time."

"About time what?"

"Travel."

Morgan arches the tips of his fingers together and rests them below his torso, speaking with soft, counselling tones. "You're not making any sense, Sam."

"Time travel," Sam reiterates, "you know, the reason I'm here."

"Not that again. Sam, you had an accident. It's skewed your perception of reality. You're suffering from dissociation. Hunt said he'd take you for evaluation, he has at the very least done that, hasn't he?"

Sam is tempted to say, 'if he has, he hasn't told me', but he stops himself in time to give a falsely cagey, "yeah, I have to have sessions once a week, but apparently my... dissociation doesn't affect my work performance."

"Good to hear. We all worry about you, you know."

"So what was the deal?"

"Hunt follows strict guidelines and reports in to the Chief Superintendent every week, and in the meantime, you remain on his team and his team remains just that. It won't last too much longer, though. We're definitely looking at changing the structure of the Force within the next year or so."

If Morgan is lying, he is doing a remarkably good job of it, and he was never very subtle in previous dealings. The letter Gene had left him for the future had said Morgan didn't know where he had gone, and sadly, this appears to be the truth.

"So, you don't know anything further about my _accident_?" Sam asks, feeling now that he is at a dead-end.

"No. I'm afraid that knowledge lies within you."

Sam exits the station by himself, his mind whirling in circles. Gene sacrificed a great portion of the way he leads his life for him. Gene never tried to have him psychologically evaluated, which either means he's accepted his insanity, or doesn't think he's insane. Gene believes in him, more than anyone ever has, or likely ever will again, even though logically there's nothing to believe in.

*

By the time Sam has sucked down some dutch courage and steeled his resolve, it's dark. He takes a cab to Gene's house and waits for an hour, but Gene must still be at the Arms, because the Cortina doesn't turn up. No one's in the house, which means his wife is staying with her sister again. Sam walks back to his own flat, feeling like the world may crumble around him, but he wouldn't really care. He's only focussed on one thing.

When he opens his door, a hand grasps his wrist, and Sam gives a strangled yelp before his eyes adjust and he sees his assailant.

"You scared the shit out of me," he remonstrates, but doesn't stop his smile from spreading.

Gene shrugs, settling onto Sam's cot and lighting a cigarette. "For a sick bloke, you've certainly been up and about." He sniffs exaggeratedly. "Is that whisky I detect on your breath?"

"Brilliant deduction, Guv." Sam sits next to Gene and nudges into his shoulder. "I went to see a mutual acquaintance."

"I know. He called."

Sam's faintly surprised by this, but tries not to show it. "Why'd you do it, Gene? For all intents and purposes I almost destroyed your career."

"Didn't though, did you? Actions speak louder than intentions."

"I couldn't leave you," Sam admits.

"And I didn't want you to. So it works out well for the both of us."

Sam pushes deeper into Gene, gratified when his arm winds around his back and his hand rests on his waist. He gives a small sigh of contentment.

"You're cut," Gene accuses. "You're well cut."

"Had to be," Sam agrees. "Otherwise I'd never have the guts to do this."

Sam can tell Gene's about to ask what the 'this' is when he presses his lips to his mouth. Gene pulls away at first, and he thinks he's made a grave error in judgement, until he realises he's adjusting angle. Gene kisses Sam back, and Sam thinks it was worth the weeks of turmoil and confusion; that he could have waited even longer for this. At first the kisses are languorous and almost gentle, Gene's hand threading into his hair, and his own pressing against Gene's chest, but they soon take on urgency and fervour, until they've fallen back on the cot and are working at each other's buttons.

Sam doesn't say anything as he pulls his shirt and vest above his head, even though he wants to tell Gene he's waited so long, has wanted this more than anything. Instead, he gazes into Gene's eyes and knows he needn't say a word. They have an understanding.


End file.
